Текст книги "Raw"

Автор книги: Belle Aurora

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Not gonna hurt you.”

Oh God. That voice. It’s just how it sounds in my dreams.

Smooth with a little huskiness. Then, something registers with me. “You’re American.”

Not missing a beat, he says, “So are you.” The tone of his voice conveys boredom.

Looking up at him, I still can’t see his face in the dark, but I hear a zipper come down and I whimper out loud.

Choking through tears, I beg, “Please, don’t hurt me. Please.”

Not saying a word, he comes towards me. Trembling, I shut my eyes tight and plead on a whisper, “Please. Please. Don’t.”

His strong arms come under mine and he lifts me to a standing position. He pulls something warm over my shoulders, and its then that I realize the zipper I heard was actually his jacket, not his pants.

I’m so relieved that I slump forward into him.

Burying my face into his chest, he wraps his arm around me while I sob noisily. His body bends and he reaches down. My pants come up my legs and he holds them in place, clearly too torn to zip up.

Leaving my attacker where he is, I secretly hope he’s dead. From the shuddering gasping noises he makes, I’m not so lucky.

The man holds me to him, walking me up to my unit. He takes his time with me, being extremely patient as I try to get my shaking legs up the steps to the second floor.

Once we reach my unit and he opens the door, it doesn’t hit me until we’re inside that he knows where I live.

So why don’t you feel like you’re in danger?

Because I’m not. I just know it.

I’m sure of it.

He closes the door behind us, flips on the light switch, and walks me down the short hall to my room. That’s when I see his skin.

Decorated. Like one massive piece of art.

No longer crying, I ask through shuddering breaths, “Have you been here before?”

But he doesn’t answer me.

Walking me to my bed, he sits me down, then walks out my bedroom door. Not thirty seconds pass when I hear the shower start, then he’s back in my room.

He doesn’t even look at me, just goes through my drawers, pulling out items of clothing for me.

So while I have a moment, I take him in.

If I saw this man on the street, the way he’s dressed right now, I would put my head down and walk the other way. And pray to God that he doesn’t see me do that, because a man looking like this while being pissed off is surely not a good thing.

He is gorgeous, though. Just not in a conventional way.

He’s tall, a little over six feet, with a muscular body and olive skin. His dark brown hair is shaved close to the scalp at the sides, but long on the top. He wears dark blue jeans that encase his long and powerful legs, a white tee that covers his broad chest and shoulders, and he’s rocking white sneakers and a thick black leather belt. But it’s what’s under the tee that draws me in.

Tattoos line his arms and neck. He has a small 13 tattooed on his right cheekbone.

The backs of his hands are beautiful. There’s no other word for it. On the back of the left hand is an intricate, black-shaded rose with a smoky grey outline; the right hand has a grey-shaded skull with smoke lacing through it. It looks so lifelike, I shiver.

Oh God.

“You’re hurt.”

His knuckles are bleeding and swollen.

Stopping in his tracks, he turns his hooded eyes to me. They aren’t hooded in a sexy way, just a bored, broody kind of way. Permanently.

It looks good on him.

He’s handsome and would look something like a clothing model without the tattoos. He has a strong chin, full bottom lip, and high cheekbones. His eyes are a soft brown. He mumbles, “Don’t worry about it. Go shower.”

Not sure why I’m taking orders from a man who likes to watch me from under a hood, but I am. As soon as I stand, the hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I ask his retreating back, “Will you still be here when I get out?”

Turning slowly, he watches me curiously from those hooded eyes. We watch each other for a good thirty seconds before he asks in that husky voice, “You want me to be?”

Not trusting myself to speak, I avoid his eyes and nod.

I feel immediate relief when he nods in return, turns, and orders, “Shower.”

Taking my robe off the back of my bedroom door, I shuffle my way into my small bathroom and undress without looking in the mirror. If I look in the mirror at the state of myself right now, I know I’ll be past freaked-out. In fact, I’m sort of questioning why I’m not freaking out more than I am.

Stupidly, I peek at my reflection and bark out a laugh.

The mirror is so fogged that I can’t see a thing. It just wasn’t meant to be.

Undressing quickly, I step into the scalding hot spray, and hold myself there for as long as possible without actually getting burned. Reaching out blindly, I turn the knobs until the spray turns cooler and think about what just happened to me.

Did I really just get assaulted by a big scary man, then get saved by my stalker?

…Yeah. That about sums it up.

The first tear comes hard.

The next comes easier.

The rest fall freely, as if they were summoned by the first.

Holding a palm up to the wall of the shower to steady myself, my body shakes in silent sobs.

I don’t want him to hear me.

Breathing deeply, I pull myself together and use the last of my energy to wash my hair. I soap up, rinse off, and head out.

Wrapping myself in my robe, I brush out my hair, then exit the bathroom to hear movement in the kitchen. Stepping into my room, I drop the robe and dress in the clothes he’s laid out for me.

It’s only once I’m dressed that I realize he’s chosen my favorite pajama combo.

Coincidence?

Somehow, I think not.

Making my way down the hall in my Elmo pajama pants, white tank, and wet hair, I slowly walk into my TV room, glancing around cautiously. From where I stand, I see him standing in the doorway of the refrigerator with his back to me.

Knowing there’s nothing in there for him to eat, I cringe. From what little I know about him, I know that I always see him on the street, wearing the same clothes. My caseworker brain automatically assumes he’s homeless.

My chest squeezes. He must be hungry.

I clear my throat and he turns to me, “Hungry?”

My brows furrow in confusion. Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?

“Uh, no. I don’t think I could eat, even if I wanted to.”

He nods thoughtfully, then asks, “You good?” while eyeing my body.

Dipping my chin, I answer back softly, “Yes. And I would’ve been a hundred times worse if you weren’t there, so...”

My heart races. I’m suddenly nervous and antsy.

“Th-thank you. F-for what you did back there,” I stutter.

His glacial eyes bore into mine. He mocks, “Don’t kid yourself.”

Taking a step towards me, his hooded brown eyes almost see right through me. “Monsters don’t always lurk in the shadows.”

Reaching up, he runs a fingertip slowly down the length of my jaw. Leaning forward, his breath warms me as he mutters a hairs-breadth away from my lips, “Sometimes they hide in plain sight.”

Eyes still closed, I break into goosebumps, and the hair on the back of my neck stands. My nipples tighten when he runs his thumb down my cheek, so so gently. He mutters, “Got some scrapes.”

I swallow hard and step back from him.

He’s like a magnet, drawing my positive to his negative. It’s too much right now.

Opening my eyes to find his still on my face, I ask a hushed, “What’s your name?”

The corner of his lip tips up. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll forget it once I’m gone.”

Taking a small step towards him, I promise, “No, I won’t.”

It’s his turn to take a step back.

He watches me some more. Those eyes. It feels as if they see everything.

Breathing in, he replies on an exhale, “I’m Twitch.”

Twitch?

Twitch? …Really?

Feeling a little braver, I explain, “I meant your real name.”

“That is my real name.”

Shaking my head, I say quietly, “No, your given name.”

He looks annoyed. “That name was given to me.”

Now, I’m annoyed. “By your parents?”

He returns, “No. Does that make it any less my name? It’s the only one you’re getting, so take it or leave it.”

Hmmm. Interesting.

I look around the room, anywhere to avoid his eyes and ask, “Why do you…” stalk  “…watch me?”

When I get no answer, I look up to find him inspecting me again.

It’s strange. He doesn’t look like a predator. Certainly doesn’t act like one. So what’s the deal?

Irritation surges through me quick as lightning. Placing a hand on my hip, I ask, “What is your deal?”

To that, I get a reaction. He smirks, knowing he’s getting to me, “It’s called people-watching.”

Frustrated, I scoff, “People-watching is watching multiple people. Different people in different situations. You are not people watching. You’re sta—”

All of a sudden, he’s up in my face. He’s so close, I can smell him.

“I’m what?” he says, daring me to say the ugly word.

Taking a deep breath, I wish I hadn’t. He smells really good. Like aftershave and musk…and all man.

I whisper, “I just want to know why you watch me?”

Not answering, he states acidly, “It was a fucking good thing I was, don’t you think?”

An awkward, foul silence follows.

His eyes soften a little. “You’re shivering.” Pointing to my sofa, he says, “Sit.”

Lifting my hands, I see that I am shivering.

This man – Twitch – he does something to me.

Shuffling over to my sofa, I sit and cover myself with a blanket. I’m surprised when he follows me and sits at the opposite end. My surprise turns to stunned disbelief when he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a packet of M&M’s, and throws a few into his mouth.

He chews slowly, watching me watch his mouth. Leaning forward, he holds out the candy and jerks his chin towards it.

When I make no move to take any and continue to stare at him, he pulls back. “Suit yourself.”

Moment of adrenaline over, I mutter, “I should call the cops.”

His eyes flash, and he shakes his head slowly. “No. You won’t. It’s already taken care of.”

What?

Brows furrowed, I ask, “What do you mean taken care of?”

His eyes search my face a long time before he utters, “Got a friend to come and sort out the problem.”

My blood runs cold.

I swallow hard, then whisper, “Is– is he dead?”

Seeming annoyed, he shoots back, “You care?”

A moment of complete honesty passes through me. “No. When you pulled me up, I wished he was dead.”

Twitch nods and his eyes soften. He seems to like that answer. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, Alexa.”

My eyes widen and I shiver. “You know my name.” A statement.

Throwing more candy into his mouth, he sucks on them and looks at me through narrowed brows.

I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking the same thing.

Why aren’t you freaking out right now?

Then I remember.

Standing, I head to the kitchen, open the top cabinet, and get out my first aid kit. Bringing it back to the sofa, I reach for his hand, but he pulls away. His eyes darken. “Don’t need to do that.”

“Please, let me help you.”

His eyes flash, and he shakes his head a little as if to clear it. Closing his eyes, he murmurs, “Okay.”

Victory and joy swirl through my body. I’m momentarily elated.

My type of work means I come across a lot of different types of people. I know that everyone is different, but what I’m sure about Twitch is that he’s a sociopath.

Opening the bottle of peroxide, I steady my jittery hand as much as possible and pour a little on some cotton. Reaching for his hand, he watches closely as I pick it up and bring it closer to me, resting it on my knee.

“This smelly stuff stings,” I warn before I dab the cotton on his wound.

He doesn’t flinch or make any sign that he’s in discomfort, but his pupils dilate as I wipe at his raw knuckles. Not liking the idea of him being in pain because of me, I bend at the waist, lean down, and blow lightly on his knuckles.

When he grips my knee tightly, I lift my head to look at him. His jaw set, his eyes hooded, he looks pissed. I whisper, “I think you’re good now.”

His face softens at my hushed tone, and he orders gently, “You need to go to sleep. You’ll be sore in the morning. Take ibuprofen.”

I don’t even get a word in before he stands, grips my upper arm firmly-but-gently, and pulls me up. Wrapping an arm around my waist, he walks me down to my room, lifts the covers of my bed, and helps me in.

I’m so relaxed right now. The ferocity of presence is alarming. I feel protected. And safe. I’m not scared of anything right now.

Laying my head down on my pillow, he pulls the covers up and over me before turning and walking away.

My head begins to pound, and my heart races.

What if you never see him again?

Just as I’m about to call out to him, he stops at the door and turns back. Looking a little unsure of himself, he watches me. I sit up, chest heaving. He searches my face for what seems like the billionth time, then asks, “You need my help sleeping?”

No hesitation. “Yes.”

He blinks. His brow furrows. Then he walks away.

Feeling very much alone right now, I can’t help the disappointment that courses through me. I accept the fact that this is how things are destined to be for me forever.

I’ve gone through everything in my life alone. I don’t need anyone now.

You don’t need anyone. It just would’ve been nice to have someone be there for you. Even if it was just for a little while.

Not wanting to think too hard, I close my eyes and lay my head down. But all I see is blackness in its bleakest form. All I feel is gripping fear. My body doesn’t feel like my own at this moment. It feels tarnished and defective.

Shutting my eyes so tight that it hurts, I hear his disgusting panting and bite my lip to stop my whimper. Covering my ear with my palm, I breathe heavily, only to inhale his rancid smell.

The bridge of my nose tingles. And I’m hurting.

I hate him for leaving me.

I hate myself more for wanting him to stay.

Tears slide out of the corner of my eyes, dampening my pillow. I push harder on my ear, trying hopelessly to block tonight out of my mind.

Things like this don’t happen to people like me. Maybe in my old life, but not anymore.

I’m not sure what I’m meant to be feeling after that, but I feel angry. And sad. And wounded. All at once.

I should be used to this. Comforting myself, that is. I revert back to my childhood and curl up on my side in a fetal position, lightly rocking. I need something to drown out my thoughts. Standing, I walk over to the CD player, press play, then all but throw myself back on the bed, once again curling up on my side.

I listen to Guy Sebastian sing about battle scars never fading. Keeping my eyes open for fear of what I’ll see if I close them, I stare into the void that is my room, wetness sliding out of the sides of my eyes.

A creak down by my door makes my ears prickle. Light footfalls follow. My body breaks out into goosebumps. The bed dips. Fright forces my heart to race.

Then…nothing.

I wait wide-eyed for an attack. An assault. Something.

Turning, I see his hood in the low light of the room. And my tight chest eases.

He didn’t leave.

Elation swirls through my troubled mind.

Curling up to watch him, I whisper, “You didn’t leave.”

But he doesn’t answer me. Lying above the covers, he pulls the hood lower onto his face, then places him arms behind his head. He says through a sigh, “Sleep, Lexi.”

Feeling safe, warm, and protected, I close my eyes and let slumber take me to a brighter place than today.

Tomorrow.

Waking with a start, my eyes snap open.

Disappointment fills me.

Twitch is gone.

I quell the urge to pout. Instead, I smile.

He might be gone now.

But he stayed.

Having done my best to cover the minor scrapes and bruising from the night before, Charlie looked at me a second too long and I jumped into panic mode. Immediately I forced a laugh and explained that I had a run in with a brick wall.

Charlie narrowed his eyes at me, but soon enough, smiled and shook his head in a ‘you’re a nut’ kind of way.

I managed to keep myself busy all morning, and before I knew it, lunchtime had come. Not wanting to stay inside and stuck in my head, I decided the park was the place to spend this fine sunny day. The urge to eat wasn’t very strong. My stomach still ached thinking about what could’ve happened the night before. Stopping at a local café, I bought a muffin and orange juice, then made my way over to the park across the street. Slipping off my shoes, I sat directly on the plush grass with my legs outstretched in front of me. Lifting my face, I took in the warm sun and sighed in bliss. I was beginning to relax again.

Which brings us to now.

My body hums in awareness. Awareness that I’m being watched.

My brows furrow. In the direct heat of the sun, I shouldn’t get goosebumps the way I just have. Suddenly, a feeling of contentment washes over me. Opening one eye, I turn and peer across the street as if I’m homing in on him.

And there he is.

A hooded figure, hands in his pockets, walking away from me.

Bubbles of warmth course through my body.

There he is. Watching me. Keeping me safe. 

Or so my gut tells me. I know I should feel differently. I should feel uneasy. And even frightened. But I don’t. Something about this man puts my mind at rest. And I know deep down that I have nothing to fear. Twitch will protect me.

Just like he always does.

The front door to my unit opens and I hear familiar voices.

“Alexa, baby, we’re here!” Nicole Palmer, my very Aussie, very uninhibited best girl friend yells out. She quickly adds, “Where are you?”

Smiling, I shout back, “In the shower; be out in a minute!”

“Take your time, love. We’ll just open some bubbly and chill on the couch.” That’s David Allen, my best guy friend. He’s tall, strapping, and handsome, a complete sweetheart, and tragically enough for the female population of Sydney, a one-hundred-percent show-tune singing pansy.

Gay as they come.

Every year, he makes us dress up and attend the gay and lesbian Mardi Gras. And every single year, I make a fuss about going. The costumes are so damn revealing! But every single year, once we’re there, I have a blast. And knowing I’m there to support my friend is enough to get me there.

The bathroom door opens, and Nikki says quietly, “Hey, babe, just thought I’d let you know that Dave and Phil broke up last night.”

With my hands in my hair, working the shampoo into a froth, I gasp.

No way!

David and Phil have been together almost a year. Dave spotted Phil at the gym working as a personal trainer and made me sign up with him for sessions to get information out of him. I, of course, did this for my friend. He’s so adorably needy sometimes that it’s hard to say no to that sweet face. Three sessions in with Phil – and my body screaming in pain – I decided to ask him out. Not that I wanted to ask him out. Oh, no. See, I knew he was gay from the very first session we had together. It wasn’t as if the guy was hiding the fact that he went out of his way to check out the other guys’ asses while they trained.

Surprisingly, Phil accepted my lunch date. Over that hour, we got to know each other, and I came to the conclusion that Phil was good enough to date my friend. And I told him just that. He laughed at my forwardness and said full of attitude, “Honey, what makes you think your friend is good enough for me?”

And just like that, I smiled like a loon, clapped my hands together, and yelled in the middle of the café, “You’re perfect!”

Phil and Dave met the next day for dinner. And Phil...well…he sort of never left Dave’s house. Rather like a puppy being adopted.

They were super sweet together. Both affectionate and needy in their own ways, they fed off each other, blooming in ways I hadn’t thought possible, and I honestly thought they had what it takes to go the distance.

My hands stilling in my soapy hair, I groan softly, “Oh, no! Poor baby Dave! What happened?”

I hear the familiar squeak of her taking a seat on my laundry basket. Conversations in the bathroom are not an unusual thing for Nikki and me. We lived together while we studied, and modesty soon became a thing of the past. She sighs, “They had a fight. A bad one. Not like they normally do, you know? It was a doozy. Long story short, Phil accused Dave of cheating on him.”

Gasping a second time, I all but shout, “Get. Out!”

Nikki makes a noise of uncertainty in the back of her throat and whispers, “Well, no. Not really. But that’s how Dave saw it.” Gah! Dave is emotional at the best of times. Nikki sighs, “Told Phil to pack his shit and leave. So Phil did. And Dave sat back and watched. Now Dave is sad.”

Her short and sweet explanation of the events suddenly makes sense. Dave can be a diva at times. I confirm, “Dave wanted to take it back, but he didn’t, right? His fierce male pride got in the way and now he regrets it, leaving us with a whiny, emotional queen of a man who will likely be drunk by the time I exit the shower, yeah?”

Amusement lines Nikki’s voice as she responds, “Bingo bongo, baby. Hit that nail right on the head.” Her voice turns awe-filled. “You’re so good at reading between the lines!”

I bark out a laugh. “Nikki, do you know what I do for a living? I get lied to on a daily basis! Those kids…they’re smart as hell. They know what you want to hear and try hard as anything to get my sniffer dog ass off their scent so they can live happily uneducated and unsupervised on the streets. Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to read between the lines.”

But I have to.

The squeak of the laundry basket tells me Nikki is now standing. “I know, babe. But you’re good at it. And those kids might not think it now, but they’re lucky to have you. And I’m proud of you.” My heart swells and I smile. I really love this lady. “Now, hurry the hell up so we can supervise our very own street rat tonight.”

She leaves me to condition my hair in peace and my mind drifts back to the previous night. Before I allow myself to go there, I burst into song to distract myself. Well, that, and to distract my friends from the fact that I’m feeling down.

Blue, a little like a two dollar ho, and still shaken from last night’s attack.

My unique rendition of Ginuwine’s Pony should do the trick. When I say unique, I mean I can’t hold a tune to save my life. But I like to sing. So fuck everything that doesn’t make you happy. I’m going to sing my out-of-tune ass off.

Wrapping a robe around me and making my hair into a towel turban, I walk right down the hall and into the lounge-slash-kitchen to find Dave sitting slumped on the sofa staring into nothingness, while Nikki has a one-sided conversation with him from the kitchen. He hasn’t shaven for at least two days, and his eyes are bloodshot, a dead giveaway of just how much this break is affecting him. He takes a swig from the sparkling wine he holds in his hand.

Poor baby.

Without a word, I walk over to him, take the sparkling wine from his hand, place it on the coffee table, and climb into his lap. Sitting with my legs draped across his lap, I wrap my arms around him and pull his head into the crook of my neck.

No one gets Dave like I do. I know this because he tells me. I also know this because Dave talks to me. He tells me things he freely admits no one else knows. I am his confessional. And he is my therapy.

We have a strange, yet completely functional relationship.

I love him as if he were my brother. I wish he were my brother. The one God gifted me I left behind a long time ago. And he was a good brother. The type of brother a sister would be proud of.

I remember as a kid that he would always put me first. He would give me the bigger half of our split chocolate bars. He would never let anyone pick on me. He would tell me the best and scariest stories. He made time for me. And I miss him.

I know Dave needs affection. He needs affection like I do. We’re affection-whores. But we’d never admit it to anyone. Our hard shells protect our soft interiors.

Dave sniffles. I feel wetness run down my neck. I let him silently pour out his sorrow. After a few minutes and no more tears, I whisper into his ear, “Want a cocoa à la Lexi?”

Nodding into my neck, I feel his smile on my collarbone and I smile to myself. He’s sad, but not broken. We can fix this.

Cocoa à la Lexi is a fancy way of saying cocoa laced with hard liquor. It’s my specialty. And I know how Dave likes it.

Lots of chocolate. Lots of cinnamon. Lots of booze.

Standing, I walk over to Nikki in the kitchen and pull out a pan to warm the milk. The kitchen timer dings, and smiling, she pulls open the oven door and the smell hits me like a brick to the nose. Turning to her, I gasp, then whisper wide-eyed, “Double choc, peanut butter niknaks?”

Laughing through her nose, she places the brownie tray on the kitchen counter and scoffs, “Well, duh! I think this occasion called for it. Don’t you?”

Let’s get something straight.

There is no occasion in the history of man that doesn’t call for double choc, peanut butter niknaks.

Christening, bar mitzvah, wedding, funeral, Ramadan, the coming of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, AA meeting, the resurrection of Jesus, G8 summit, family reunion… these brownies would be welcome at any of the above. And I make it my business to invent occasions to enjoy these babies because Nikki is a hard nut to crack. When I say that, I mean the bitch is mean! She can be a softie, but not when it comes to double choc, peanut butter niknaks.

She does not make these brownies willy-nilly.

Watching me watch her niknaks like a fox watching a chicken out of the safety of its coop, she clears her throat. When I look up at her, she motions to the pan in my hand.

Right! Cocoa à la Lexi! Coming right up.

Maybe tonight won’t be as hard as I thought it would be. That is, until Nikki’s brow furrows and she steps closer to me with a scrutinizing eye. Reaching up, she touches my cheek, then my lip with a gentle touch and mutters, “Babe?”

Shit, fuck, crap!

My face flames and she steps back to search my face. Turning her head to check on Dave, she pulls me into the corner of the kitchen and whisper-hisses, “Talk.”

So starts Whisperfest 2014.

“It’s nothing. I swear. Don’t make a big deal. I don’t want Dave to freak out.”

She whispers back heatedly, “If you don’t want me to say anything, I suggest you tell me what happened so there will be less freakage on my part, and I won’t need to alarm our sweet-yet-sad David.”

Slapping her shoulder, I hiss out, “Shhhh! He’ll hear you!” Not having taken an inch of my dramatics, she glares at me while tapping her foot. And I cave. “Okay, so you have to promise not to freak out.”

But as soon as I say that – of course – she freaks out. Wide-eyed, she steps back and whisper-shouts, “Who did this to you? Was it George? It was George, wasn’t it? I told you I didn’t want you living next to an unstable dude!”

George, my bipolar neighbor, would never lay a hand on me. The guy loves me! Being a caseworker, the first time we spoke, I picked up on his behavior right away. I’m sure he wasn’t used to what he got from me.

A hug.

I told George that I worked with a lot of people who suffered mental illness, and that if he felt a panic attack coming on that I would be there for him; all he needed to do was call. Which he has done. And I’ve always been there to help talk him down and soothe him from the overwhelming state he finds himself in. He has never – I repeat – never been violent towards me. So I’m a little pissed at Nikki right now.

I glower at her, “Don’t you do that, Nikki! That’s not cool, babe.”

“Do what?” she responds, exasperated.

Staring her down a moment, I state, “Stereotype.”

Brows rising, she whispers, “Holy shit. I totally did, didn’t I?” Taking a step away from me, her brows bunch. She’s obviously upset with herself. And now I feel like shit.

Taking her hand, I sigh, “Babe, I’ll explain everything later, I promise. But right now, I’ve got cocoa to make, you’ve got niknaks to slice, and we’ve got to come up with a way for Dave to make this right with Phil.” Gesturing to my face, I tell her, “This…is not a priority right now.”

Her eyes search my face, and I add, “Do I look like a withering mess right now?”

Rolling her eyes, she responds sullenly, “Well, no.”

Nodding, I agree, “Exactly, Nikki. Priorities.” She throws me a curt nod. I feel the need to add quietly, “Because what I’ve got to tell you…it’s not pretty.”

Her face turns anxious, but she covers it quickly. Clapping her hands together, she opens the fridge, hands me the milk and orders, “Right! Cocoa à la Lexi. Now, lady!”

This is one of the reasons I love Nikki. She knows me well enough to know I’ll talk to her when I’m ready. And we don’t keep secrets.

So why am I thinking of a suitable lie to tell her about the state of my face?

Pushing that thought aside, I go about making my famous concoction and pouring the steaming goodness into mugs. Placing the cocoa and bite-sized squares of niknaks on a tray, I walk them into the lounge room and put them on the coffee table.

Not even looking up at me, Dave reaches forward and takes a mug. Robotically, he puts the mug to his lips and sips. Two, three, four sips later, the robot comes back to life. “Damn, girlie. No one does cocoa like you do.”

Smiling gently, he looks up at me, and his face turns stunned, “Baby! What happened to your face?”

Lying like a pro, I shrug and say easily, as if rehearsed, “Tripped on the last step down and planted my face into the brick hall.” He gasps, and looking up in thought, I add to lighten the mood, “Not as much fun as it sounds.”

Dave chuckles, “Shit, Lex. Only you would do something like that. Queen klutz, you are.”

Smiling through my split lip, I glance over at Nikki. Her eyes narrow at me, and unease climbs over me. Clearing my throat, I take my mug and announce, “Right! Well I think the first course of action tonight is finding a way for Dave to tell Phil he wants him to move back in.”

Dave smiles at me so warmly, so brightly, that I’m suddenly reminded that there are people I also have that I can talk to about my issues. My mind stills on this thought.

People I can talk to.

Talk to.

Talk to them.

Don’t talk to them.

They would never understand.

I don’t want them to understand.

Twitch is mine. Just mine. And right now, I like it like that.

That night, my eyes flutter.

Then widen in alarm.

Then soften with my sleepy smile.

His hand rests gently on my hip as he maintains his distance, his body away from mine.